


Imagination

by VenomQuill



Series: Gravity Trails [5]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Gravity Trails AU, He can see into your very soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenomQuill/pseuds/VenomQuill
Summary: The White Stag is a creature of legend. He brings people to the "promise land", be that their survival or their treasure. He helps those in need, often one at a time. But what happens if he takes too much on at once...?





	Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> See it on dA:

The white stag walked through an older pine-tree forest. His deep orange eyes scanned the world around him. He’d detected a large spike of emotional energy near here. It was so sudden and drastic he couldn’t resist gravitating toward it.

He stopped just shy of the tree line. Before him was a secluded cabin. Despite its innocent appearance, the stag could _feel_ the emotions hidden within.

Suddenly, the stag was beside the house. He walked around it, peering into the windows, studying its contents. Most items held faint sparkles of grey energy. They were worthless. A few were gray, but held some colorful tints. Within a dresser in the bedroom, he could sense green. He paused by the window of the bedroom. Although many objects were gray, there was quite a bit of white and green and even a little bit of blue.

The front door slammed open. The white stag walked around the side of the house. A man stalked out, hands balled into fists, muscles shaking. His aura was a very, very violent red. The car drove off. The stag vanished. He reappeared by a small, quaint little home. He stayed out of sight and watched as the man stalked into his house. The stag went unnoticed as he watched the man move around. For a while, he sat at his desk, laptop open, head tipped back so that he stared at the ceiling. His aura was still a very sharp red. Yet, deep down, he could feel the beginning of yellow mixing with red to make a near indistinguishable orange. Thankfully, the yellow wasn’t too big; he was mostly red. Red was not the easiest to deal with, but it was _much_ easier than yellow. He found the man’s name to be Fiddleford, a southerner with a big heart and mind naturally prone to fear. His aura had probably been tinted a pinkish red for quite a while.

Eventually, the man went to bed. The stag walked around the exterior of the house a few times. Every window he had–save for the bathroom window–had the ability to be opened. The windows were also flanked by curtains. The bathroom window was purposefully clouded. There was room for him inside of the living room if he hunkered down. The living room window was big enough to fit most of his head. He might not be able to get anything but his muzzle through the kitchen window.

The white stag backed off. He vanished and reappeared by the cabin in the woods. He cringed at the sudden change from a mostly pure red to a haunting purple. When he approached the house, he saw the owner stalking about inside. His aura was a hard purple. It was blue and red mixed together so tightly they’d merged into one color. He could feel yellow flickering within this man’s soul, too. It had more fervor than Fiddleford’s. This man’s name was Stanford. The white stag should probably keep an eye on Stanford. Then again, Fiddleford’s aura was much more violent than Stanford’s. Stanford’s was a bit spastic, but he knew how to keep himself under control. Fiddleford was in such shock that his aura might start planting itself into his soul. Any damage done to his soul was irreversible.

Perhaps he could passively heal Stanford while aiding Fiddleford. Yes, there had to be something he could do to invest in Stanford’s future while dealing with Fiddleford’s.

The white stag inspected this cabin. Hmm… lots of gray… some white and green and a few sparks of blue. The white stag vanished and reappeared inside of the man’s bedroom. He had to lay down and keep his head bowed in order to fit. After a bit of a search, he dragged a picture out of the dresser. It was old, but well preserved. Twin boys, twelve years old, were on it. The emotional energy that radiated from it was so strong it was almost as if it had a soul. At one time, he imagined this picture radiated white. But now it was a pale, baby blue. It was melancholic, now. The memory associated with it was still fond. One of the boys was Stanford. The other was… hmm… he was the man’s twin. His name was… Stanley.

The stag appeared in the cabin yard again and walked into the forest. He approached a road. From there, a trail of faded light snaked over the pavement. He followed it at a quick bound. Eventually, the white light grew in intensity. It turned a smoky blue. Finally, it stopped. Once the white stag reached the end, it vanished. The white stag’s gaze fell over a red, low car. The occupant was asleep within. So, he walked around until he was at the driver’s side.

The sleeping man’s aura was a dark blue-gray. It was so alarmingly dark, the stag wondered why he hadn’t felt this emotional pain earlier. The man was obviously in quite a bit of emotional pain but… ah. That’s it. The change had been gradual. His destiny was going to reach a sharp turning point in the near future–a few months at worst. Then it would get lighter, flare blue and red, and soon fade a bit into a steady blue flecked by red and shaded by gray. The stag wanted to see how much the man’s soul had been affected, but the man would have to be awake for that and staring him straight in the eyes.

The stag walked into the forest and waited. Eventually, the man woke. He yawned, grimaced, and sat up. He patted the seat and searched a bit in the passenger’s side for food that wasn’t there.

The white stag walked around so that he was by the driver’s window. The man hadn’t noticed him yet. So, the stag watched him dig around a bit more. Finally, Stanley sat up and took the wheel. He looked to the side and shouted in surprise. After all, the stag was merely a foot away from the window.

“What the hell–?!” Stanley yelped and looked him over. “What are you doing here?”

The stag continued to stare at him. The man’s soul was not pure white. Gray and blue tinged some parts like mold.

“Okay. Uh… not afraid of me?”

Yes, he was hurt, very hurt. He couldn’t help the man’s soul, but he could prevent it from collecting more scars.

“Welp. You’re starting to creep me out.” Stanley waved his hand. “Uh, go. Go on.”

The white stag looked down at the man’s hand, and then back up at him. After a moment of consideration, he turned around and walked off.

Once he hit the tree line, he stopped and watched the man. The car started up and drove down the road.

The white stag followed, his form invisible and incorporeal. Stanley had a funny way of running things. He took stray change anywhere he could find it–even if it was still in someone’s pocket–and conned his way through meals and clothes. The white stag often avoided crowds. So many auras of so many types made it difficult to focus, after all. Besides, the black auras, no matter how rare, crippled his own spirit. A gray aura he could fix. A black one could not be helped.

Still, the white stag followed. It was a pity the man with so much potential was squandering it through petty theft. He had so much potential in _business_. Albeit potential in a less savory way than honest business, but one in business that didn’t involve petty theft nonetheless.

Finally, Stanley parked for the night in a more secluded parking lot.

The white stag made himself visible and corporeal. He stood by the man’s window as he ducked to grab his meager dinner. When the man looked up, he bristled and choked on his sandwich. After a bit of a struggle, he managed to swallow the piece of food. “What the hell?!”

…

Stanley looked him up and down. “Are you real?” He looked down at his sandwich and then up at him. “I’m not drugged, am I?”

…

“Yeah, still freaking me out. Shoo.” He waved his hand at him.

The white stag watched him.

“Uh…” The man ducked into his car. He brought out an empty can and chucked it. “Shoo!”

The white stag side-stepped the attack. He looked down at the can. It had a gray aura. He looked up at Stanley. The white stag flicked his ears back.

“Oh, you didn’t like that? Then move.” Stanley rolled up his window and went back to his sandwich.

The white stag looked at the can. Ugh. Littering. He snorted and lowered his head. The man gave him a side-ways stare. Stanley tapped the horn on his car. The white stag tapped his hoof on the ground next to the can.

Stanley swallowed the last of his sandwich. He revved the engine to his car. “Go on! Seriously, you’re freaking me out.”

The white stag took a step back, lowered his head further, and hopped forward. He heard quite a bit of swearing as his antlers caught under the car and tipped it to the side. He’d almost gotten it completely on its side before Stanley stuttered, “Okay, okay! Sorry for littering! Put me down! Uh, please!” Satisfied, the white stag lowered his head to gently set the car down and then stepped back. He tapped the ground next to the can.

Stanley, eyes wide as moons, looked at the can and then the deer. Slowly, he opened the door. The white stag backed off a couple of hoof steps. Stanley reached down, grabbed the can, and then retreated into his car. The white stag flicked his ear, turned around, and then walked off. The man drove to another location to sleep.

 

That morning, the stag stood by the side window again. This time, Stanley didn’t jump as hard upon seeing him. “What’s your deal, anyway? Are you some sort of nature thing?”

…

“You, like, against littering? I wasn’t littering! A few days ago, at least!”

…

Stanley’s look of indignance and irritation flattened. “So, you’re gunna keep bothering me, right?”

…

“I thought so.” Stanley sighed. He turned on the car. A smile played on his lips. “Good luck catchin’ up, Moony.” With that, the car rolled onto the road and sped off. It was cute how the people he visited often fled or shut him out thinking he’d disappear.

The white stag turned invisible and incorporeal and bounded alongside in the woods. His sleek bound matched the car’s speed. Eventually, the car slowed in a new town. The white stag contented himself to watch the man interact.

Then, Stanley came to speak to someone. The white stag watched as he spoke with this person. This person’s aura was a dusty baby blue. The man faked fear. The white stag narrowed his eyes. The words were quiet, but he understood them. This man was not trustworthy. This man had just hired Stanley for some smuggling work. Stanley agreed to it.

The white stag followed the man with the dusty baby blue aura. After a while, he was taken to what looked like a warehouse. After some walking and talking with the other people there–only a handful with white auras and an unfortunate higher amount with black or very dark gray–the man left. He left and wandered around town until he met another man with a white aura. _Policeman._

The white stag nodded. This man who hired Stanley… he was leading the police straight to the operation.

The white stag turned and ran off.

Stanley had gotten a better meal this time, probably due to the fact he was able to weasel some money out of a few out-of-towners. When the white stag stayed outside his window, Stanley ignored him. He was even able to fall asleep being watched by the stag. Only slightly exasperated, the stag lay down beside the driver’s side door and set his chin on the asphalt.

When dawn broke, Stanley was awake. He gave the stag a “hello” before driving off. Stanley didn’t get in too much trouble that day, which was great. He was still stealing for food, which was not great.

The white stag bounded off. He needed to get some food and water for Stanley. More than that, he needed to get Stanley to trust him. If Stanley trusted him, then the white stag could help him.

Eventually, the stag’s hooves touched water. He looked down at the waves in which he stood upon like he would a sandy beach. Something with a white aura strong enough to have a soul of its own lay, broken, under the water. Blue and yellow swirled in the white. The stag lay down and dipped his head into the water. He nearly pulled his head out. If objects could feel pain, this thing would be screaming.

The white stag shut his eyes, took a deep, nonexistent breath, and reached down. His teeth locked onto a compass. The stag hesitated, let go, and then grabbed onto the mast. He let go of that, too. He reached a hoof down to break the wooden hull, perhaps to bring out some of the words painted on its side. Unfortunately, wind, weather, and salt water was not kind to the paint. Eventually, he let it go and hopped off.

He appeared in a street with small, clustered houses standing flush together. “PINES PAWNS” glowed above the door. He appeared in the pawn shop, invisible. Otherwise, he’d have scared the old man behind the counter. He looked over the many, many things in the shop. Everything was gray. Eventually, he went to their old bedroom. Ah! Color! The stag did some digging and eventually pulled out an old notebook, which shimmered with a faint blue-green aura, left behind by Stanford and Stanley both. Moments later, the stag was by a stream with fast-flowing water. The old notebook was set down onto a time-worn bench.

As the day wound to a close, Stanley’s car ran out of town and in the direction of their meeting place. The white stag bounded into the trees ahead of the car and then walked into the road. He turned to look at Stanley as the man’s car raced toward him. The car screeched as Stanley stomped on the brakes and jerked the car to the side in order to avoid hitting him. Since the white stag took up quite a bit of room on the road, Stanley’s car was forced to stop on the side of the road.

Stanley got out. “Hey! What’s the big idea?! You almost killed me!”

The white stag walked to the forest and looked back at him, ears flicked forward and tail up.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you! Ugh! I threw away that stupid can, okay? Now would you leave me alone?” Stanley got back into his car.

The white stag bounded to the car and hopped about it. If Stanley tried backing up, he’d only meet the stag. If he tried going forward, he’d just run into the stag. With a defeated sigh, Stanley shut off the car and got back out again. The stag stopped by the tree line and watched Stanley. “Do you want me to follow you?”

The white stag lowered his head and bleated.

“Too bad. I’ve got places to be.” Stanley hopped into his car and started off. The white stag didn’t move. Instead, he raised his head and watched as the car skidded and stopped. One of his front tires had been slashed by the white stag’s back hoof. “You slashed my tire?!”

The white stag threw his head back and stamped his hooves.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

The white stag bleated and snorted. Alright. It was a bit funny.

“Oh, that’s it.” Stanley grabbed a knife from his car and ran after the white stag. When the white stag bounded off, he yelled, “Yeah, you better run!” Stanley stopped by the tree line and put his knife away. “Don’t come back, y’hear?”

The white stag appeared beside Stanley’s car as the man shouted. Stanley had left the driver’s side door open. So, the stag ducked his head inside and searched around. Most of the objects in the car had a gray aura, though a few were green, yellow, and even red. Under the visor was a picture that had a brilliant yellow-white aura. It was a picture of two teens outfitted with boxing gloves playfully nudging each other. That was Stanley, Stanford and… Filbrick. Yes, the older man behind the boys was Filbrick, their father.

“HEY!” Stanley rushed back to his car.

The white stag grabbed the picture in his teeth and backed out.

“Get out of here you–wait. Hey, that’s mine!”

The white stag, now being chased, hopped into the forest. He had to quicken his pace as Stanley kept trying to grab the stag.

Eventually, the stag put on a burst of speed so that he was so far ahead of Stanley the man almost lost him. Then, the white stag slowed to a stop and knelt. Stanley burst into the clearing just as the white stag set the picture on top of a rotten wooden bench. He backed off to allow Stanley to grab the picture. As expected, the man didn’t run off. Instead, he looked down at the notebook that had been under it.

He picked it up and looked it over. Notes, drawings, and equations scribbled in the ancient thing. Side-notes, bullet points, dates… the thing was white and blue, now. The stag stood tall and watched the man look over the thing in his hands.

Eventually, Stanley looked up. The stag stared straight back at him. “You… where did you find this?” Hope was in his eyes, now. “Did… this is Stanford’s. Do you know Ford?”

The stag dipped his head.

Stanley’s face lit up. “So, you do know him! Do you know where he went?”

The white stag stared at him. Stanley wasn’t ready for that answer, yet.

Stanley’s expression fell a bit. “Okay, but, you do know him, right?”

The stag nodded.

Stanley sighed. “Good! …did he give this to you?”

…

“No? Then who did?”

…

“Not talking, huh?” Stanley looked down at the notebook. “I better get back to my car. I just got a good gig. You, uh… you’re not going to break my car anymore, are you?”

The white stag lay down.

“Yeah, cool.” Stanley, his grip on the notebook and picture possessive, walked back in the direction in which he came.

The white stag got up and followed.

When Stanley got back to his car, he put the picture back in its rightful place and the notebook in his dashboard. He about started the car, but realized that his tire was still slashed. He sighed. “You know, Moon-butt, I need this car to go places. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

The white stag lowered his head. The town wasn’t that far away!

“You wanna help me go get a tire or something?”

The white stag straightened up and bounded off into the woods. He turned invisible a few yards in, once Stanley couldn’t see him. Stanley started to follow, but swore and walked back to his car. “Thanks a lot, Moon-butt! If I get eaten by a wild animal, I’m pinning this on you!”

The white stag followed the fuming man as he grabbed his things and walked to town.

By the time night had fallen, Stanley had changed his tire and was ready to go. Before he got to the meeting place, the white stag hopped ahead of him again. Stanley stopped immediately. He started to complain. Then, he saw what the white stag saw–great plumes of smoke.

Police cars flanked old cars and trucks and the occasional ambulance and fire truck. Flames licked up the sides of the building and smoldered in isolated cars. Water hissed from the fire trucks. Smoke billowed out of the building. Fireman brought out burn and smoke victims–some alive but some dying on the way–for the ambulances.

The white stag turned around and stared at Stanley. The man didn’t speak. He backed his car up and drove away.

Once out of town, the man shut off his car and lay back. When the deer started to move, he called, “Hey?”

The white stag turned and stared at him.

“Thanks, Moony. You, uh…” Stanley looked up at the ceiling of his car. “You saved my skin back there. Sorry for calling you annoying.”

The white stag watched him. He’d come across countless people in his journey and tried to fix them. Usually men of his age and status had never really been… hurtful to be around. But this man in particular, like the runaway or kidnapped children he rescued, held this emotion that was impossible for him to ignore. Now, as he looked at the man, his aura was no longer a dark dusty blue. It was lighter. The change was very, very faint, but it was there all the same.

The stag turned around completely and lay down next to the driver’s side door. He lay his head down and shut his eyes.

Stanley shut his eyes and went to sleep.

 

The next morning, the stag stood up and looked around. He couldn’t sleep. He was not a mortal. So, instead, he’d had all night to consider his options concerning the other two. The best way to fix Stanford was to reunite him peacefully with Stanley. The same went with Stanley. But Fiddleford wouldn’t be as simple as that. He had many siblings, of course, but he’d never fallen out with them as drastically as the twins. Fiddleford’s greatest enemy was himself. Admittedly, those battles were ones the stag was not fond of. Those were harder to fight.

The stag glanced down at Stanley, who was still quite peacefully asleep. He turned back to the forest and bounded into the trees.

Seconds later, he was by a small home in Gravity Falls with Fiddleford’s car in the driveway. There was movement inside. He could hear eggs cooking on the stove. So, he clopped around to the kitchen window. The curtains were drawn. Still, he stood outside of it. The man would open the window. It was a pretty day out and humans, no matter how much they hid in their homes, liked the sunlight.

The curtains drew back and the glass of the windows opened. The southerner with a bright red aura stood before him. The yellow was a bit more prominent, now. As soon as the man’s bright blue eyes fell on the white stag, he screamed and stumbled back.

For a while, they just stared at each other. Yep. The gold in his aura was too bright for his liking. What had the man done to himself in the five days since the stag had last seen them?

…oh no.

No, he used that memory erasing device, didn’t he? That thing could create a yellow aura faster than ink could cloud water.

Eventually, the man spoke. “What are you doin’ here? Aren’tcha supposed to be out in the woods or somethin’?”

The stag didn’t bat an eye at the sudden movement and words.

“Uh… can you hear me?”

The man’s soul was still white, though pink tinged some parts of it.

“Yeah, I thought so.” The man cleared his throat and approached the window. He glanced down at the eggs, biscuits, and coffee on the countertop. They were cold. He looked up at the stag. “You, uh… you some kind of imported pet or somethin’?”

…

Fiddleford jolted as an idea came to him. Mortals were so funny. Each and every one of them was unique when it came to suddenly realizing they were talking to a deer. “Uh, shoo. Go on!” Fiddleford waved his hand at the window. “Shoo! You stay here any longer an’ those lumberjacks will strike you down!”

The stag looked down at the man’s hand and then Fiddleford. That was enough for one day. Slowly, the stag turned and walked away.

“Right.” Fiddleford’s voice was muffled as he shut the window. “Gunna… gunna hear about this missin’ deer soon enough.”

 

The stag appeared by the road. Behind him, a red car traveled down the road. The white stag looked back. The car stopped. Stanley popped his head out. “Hey! Where’d you go, Moony?”

The white stag shook his head, turned, and approached the car.

Stanley smirked. “So, got any news?”

…

“Yeah, not the talkin’ type today, eh?” Stanley tapped the driver’s wheel. “So, I know you don’t like littering, so you probably don’t like stealing, _buuuuut_ I kinda think you can forgive me for that, right?” He smiled.

The white stag twitched an ear.

Stanley’s smile left him. “Yeah, pretty much. Well, I don’t have anything to eat! You have grass and leaves and stuff _everywhere!_ I don’t!”

…

Stanly looked him up and down. “You don’t happen to know where I could get something to eat, do you?”

Hmm… he knew two dozen places with food and two dozen more ways on how to get them just off the top of his head. But if Stanley knew that…

“Uh… please?” Stanley tried.

Well… he couldn’t say no to manners. The white stag turned around and looked down. He stamped the gravelly line between asphalt and grass. Yes… a line… he could see it. Faint, but it was there. So, the white stag stood up straight and followed the line into the woods. Stanley shut off his car and followed.

The line was light, but tinged with red and teal, teal being more prominent. Oh dear, that was never good. Those two colors never mixed well. At least they weren’t going gray. This soul was still salvageable, probably easily being so light. Hmm… but this particular trail belonged to a young one. That was never good. A young soul, sad, full of fear and guilt.

Oh.

The white stag stopped. A few yards ahead, curled up into himself, was a young boy. Ten, going to be eleven in a few months. He wore a red backpack heavy with items that had good sentimental value as well as a few items with practical value like sandwiches and water.

Stanley stopped next to him. His expectant smile had long been lost as he, too, had heard the sniffling. Stanley glanced at the stag. “I’m not taking food from a kid, Moony.”

The white stag bowed his head and took a step back.

“I’m not-” he started and then cut himself off.

The boy stared in their direction, now. “Wh-who’s there?”

The white stag watched Stanley.

Stanley took a deep breath and walked toward the boy. The white stag followed by his side. “The name’s Stanley. Friend here is Moony. What’s your name?”

“I-I’m T-Taylor.” The boy hesitated as he looked over the deer. “Are you magic?”

Stanley chuckled, hands in his pockets. “Well, I’m not. But my buddy here is. What are you doing all the way out here, Taylor?”

Taylor rubbed his eyes with the already damp sleeve of his shirt. “O-oh. Nothing. I just… um… got lost? I guess.”

“Got lost with a big backpack.” Stanley nodded toward the vibrant red thing Taylor had.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I, uh, was going camping.” Taylor looked away. “I got lost. I-I thought I saw like a monster or somethin’.” He perked up and turned to them. “Do you know how to get home?”

Stanley shrugged. “Well… yeah, I guess.”

Taylor hopped to his feet, a grand smile on his face, now. “You’ll take me there? My parents are probably at the campsite, but I don’t know how to get back. But you’ll take me there?”

“Uh, sure.” Stanley looked at the white stag. “Forge ahead, Moony?”

The white stag twitched his ear. Ah, yes. Both souls were a bit brighter, now. The red in child’s aura had faded to a rosy pink. The teal was not a shade lighter. The white stag lowered his head and looked to the ground. Ah. He couldn’t see their trails. They didn’t need spiritual help. So, he raised his head and fell back on his instinct. His hooves moved with a mind of their own. Stanley and Taylor immediately followed.

Seconds later, they were near a campsite. The white stag stopped just out of sight.

Stanley stopped, too. “You coming with?”

The white stag lay down.

“Alright. Come on. Let’s see if you’re parents are here.” Stanley walked off. Taylor held onto Stanley’s shirt and followed.

The white stag watched the reunion. The mother squealed and brought her son in her arms. The father turned to Stanley and thanked him profusely. Soon, the mother waved her hand to their RV, where she pulled out the supplies for a rather large dinner. Stanley had a real dinner that evening with laughter and stories and marshmallows to roast. He had a place to sleep that night and spare clothes in the morning. Eventually, Stanley returned to the stag, who stood up and walked back to the red car.

“So, are you some sort of guardian angel?” Stanley prompted as they walked. He looked down at a card he was given. “Because, you act like it.”

The white stag shook his head.

“Weird. So, you’re a _mystical spirit_ , right?”

Stanley could make anything sarcastic, that’s for sure.

“I don’t hear a no! Awesome. So, you visit anyone else lately?”

Stanley wasn’t ready for that answer.

“Aw, no answer? Ah well. Hey, looka this!” Stanley held up the card. It had numbers on it. “Business card! Fancy, eh?”

The white stag twitched an ear.

“I told them about my past as a traveling salesman. That guy was a traveling salesman, too!” Stanley grinned. “I could take up the business again, try selling something that works. His things work. I could make something of myself.”

Stanley’s deep gray aura had lightened a bit more. The white stag looked ahead, trying not to show his happiness. Stanley was going to be alright.

“Did I ever tell you why I went into sales?” Stanley prompted. They’d reached his car.

The white stag shook his head.

“Cool!” Stanley sat down in the driver’s seat of his scar, but didn’t turn on the vehicle or shut the door. “So, I wanted to go into the treasure hunting business. Turns out that gold is some sort of _rare metal_ , though.”

 

Stanley bought a celebratory dinner that night before looking for a motel.

Moments later, the white stag was in front of Fiddleford’s house. He was invisible and now intangible. So, he walked straight through the wall and into Fiddleford’s living room. He lay down, got into a more comfortable position, and turned visible and tangible again.

There was a shuffle in the kitchen as dinner was made. Eventually, the living room door opened. Fiddleford shrieked and dropped his dinner as he scrambled back. Gravy, potatoes, pork, and juice spilled over the linoleum. The stag didn’t flinch. Fiddleford’s aura hadn’t changed, which was better than getting worse.

Fiddleford stared at him. “Y-you’re in my living room.”

…

“How did you get in here?” Fiddleford looked at the door. It wasn’t open. “D-did someone put you in here?”

…

“Right. Uh…” Fiddleford took a deep breath. “Okay. You’re in my house. I’m gunna open that door and you’re gunna go outside. You make any sudden movements an’ I’ll call animal control, alright?”

…

Fiddleford slowly stepped around the deer. The white stag’s gaze followed the man as he went. Fiddleford paused behind him. The stag considered moving his back legs, but banished the thought. It would only scare the man.

Fiddleford took a deep breath, muttered a quick prayer, and scooted around him. The stag turned his head so that he wouldn’t hurt himself trying to crane his neck. The living room ceiling light shattered. Glass sprinkled over the buck’s side. He paid no heed to it.

“Y-you’re really startin’ ta creep me out, ya know.” Fiddleford said as he got to the door.

…

Fiddleford opened the front door and backed away. “Okay, you can come out now! Come on out!”

For a short while, the stag didn’t move. Hmm… should he stay, or should he go? This visit hadn’t been particularly long. Still, the man has had enough. Knowing that the stag can get into his house was good enough. So, he scooted out of the house. There wasn’t the slightest struggle as he got through the door and into the driveway. Once he was outside, he looked back at Fiddleford. The man smiled and then dashed inside. He peered out one of the windows. The buck stared at him for a little while before walking off again.

Moments later, he was at the tree line. Stanley was by his car, his duffle bag over his shoulders. He’d gotten cleaned up a bit. He was ready to dominate his work. He was his own boss, if an informal partner of Taylor’s father.

Once night fell completely, the white stag didn’t visit Stanley in his car. Instead, he watched Stanley drop his bag inside of a small motel room. It wasn’t good, but it was a step up.

Stanley turned around and grinned. “Hey, Moony! Guess what!” Stanley opened the door and stepped into the warm evening air. The white stag backed off a pace. “I’ve been thinking all day and practicing this new pitch I got. It’ll _floor_ these suckers! Er–customers!”

The white stag stamped one of his hooves, tail flicked up. The white stag couldn’t feel emotions. He wasn’t a mortal. So, instead, he felt the emotions of those around him. Now, he felt _joy._

Stanley laughed and stomped on the cement outside his door.

The white stag stamped both hooves. He lowered his head, bumped Stanley in the chest, and bounced away. Tail flicked up and eyes concentrating on Stanley, he waited. Stanley ran after him. “Hey, you know how long it took me to fold this shirt? Two seconds because I didn’t!”

The white stag bounded around the parking lot like a fawn. Unfortunately–or fortunately?–there was no childhood to reminisce on or any life-long friends. He did remember the people he saved that felt such joy. It was mostly the children, but that never lasted. The children would go home to their parents and soon enough the white stag was forgotten, just a dream they had. Like a unicorn; imagined and hoped, but never actually there. Then, there were the teens who thought of him as hallucinations and played along with his tricks. The shy ones played the most. The adults… there weren’t too many of them, but those that did would chase him for a few moments before slowing down and turning their play into chatter. That’s what adults do–they talk. Humans are talkative creatures and adults draw most of their enjoyment from speech or speech-centered games. The white stag… could not speak.

But this man was a challenger. He took a challenge and tackled it to the ground.

Stanley reached out to grab the deer. He missed by a mere inch. The white stag turned on a dime and bounded off in a large circle. “I know you think you can’t be caught, but I’ll catch you! Mark my words, Stanley Pines will catch the white stag!”

The deer bleated and kicked a can. The bent piece of trash hit Stanley in the arm. “Ow! Uh, really? What was that for?” Stanley held up the can. The white stag froze. He watched the can.

Stanley grinned and dropped it. The can hit the asphalt. The white stag lowered his antlers and charged Stanley. The man dove to the side and lashed out. But the white stag was no longer there. He’d changed course before reaching the spot Stanley had been in. He kicked the can again, this time sending it soaring. It whizzed past Stanley’s head and hit the brick of the motel behind them.

Stanley looked back at the building and then the deer. “You’re trying to kill me!”

The white stag bleated and stamped the ground.

Stanley was unsuccessful in catching him that night. So, tired, he went to bed. The white stag watched him go. His aura was much lighter, now. It was still stained in blue and teal. Gray swirled in there like storm clouds. No, not like storm clouds. Gray stayed there like a cat, held at bay by bright light. As soon as the light was gone, it would pounce. The white stag looked at his hooves. He… shouldn’t have taken on so many jobs at once. Stanley’s aura was fragile, Fiddleford was slowly going insane, and Stanford’s paranoia was _still_ unspeakably large and the white stag had not done _anything_ for him! He was going to fail. The white stag would fail and all of them would pay the price.

The white stag watched as Stanley went to bed. He hadn’t bothered to close the curtains. Now that his emotions had faded into near nonexistence, he could not feel. Good. Emotion would cloud his judgement. Stanley’s aura was fragile and he had scars in his soul, which made him a priority. _However,_ the yellow in Fiddleford’s aura was getting bigger. That was the topmost priority. Yellow was one of the most difficult to reverse. The white stag looked back. Enough games. It was time to move on to Fiddleford.

He turned and walked.

Seconds later, he was back in Gravity Falls. Fiddleford was asleep, now, and Stanford was trying not to sleep. Auras were difficult to see when the subject was asleep. So, he waited.

When dawn broke, Fiddleford wasn’t as spooked by the white stag’s presence. Better.

Days began to pass. His visits with Stanley were growing slim while his stalking of Fiddleford grew more frequent. Stanley would greet him with a “Hey! Pester anyone new, Moon-butt?” while Fiddleford gave him a “Look, Ah don’t quite know what’s goin’ on, but Stanford’s the one to see if you’re a magical critter. Ah just build machines.” Still, Fiddleford was kinder toward him, now. As the days passed, Fiddleford’s guard started to drop. The white stag could feel it in his words and actions.

“Hey, there.” On the twenty second day, the white stag was watching Fiddleford through the kitchen window. It was morning and the man was barbed. After all, he had just gone through a new ordeal with his Society the night prior. The yellow in his aura was flaring up a bit more.

 “So, did you find someone else to bother or is it just me?” Fiddleford seemed to be trying to keep his voice cool, but his voice still held a bit of a barb.

…

“Yeah, I thought so.” He took a drink of his orange juice. “Was a nice day today. Didn’t see ya in the museum for a change. Don’t like the stuffed cats, I assume.”

…

“Mhm. Talkin’ to maself. Like usual.”

The stag looked him up and down. It had been a while since the man had called his family. The strain was wearing on him. The yellow was more prominent. So, the white stag stuck his muzzle through the open window and snorted. The curtains brushing his muzzle fluttered. Air washed over the phone the stag watched.

Fiddleford caught the action. “What? You want me ta call you or somethin’? Miss yer owners?”

The stag retracted his head and resumed staring at Fiddleford. When the man went back to his meal, the stag repeated the action. This time, he drew in a bit more air. The cord on the phone shuttered a bit as it caught the breeze the stag caused.

“What do ya want?” Fiddleford shot back. “Ah don’t know their phone numbers or whatever.”

Calm as could be, the stag retracted his head and walked off. The man didn’t call after him, most likely surprised at the stag’s leave. However, he wasn’t leaving, not now. Instead, he walked around to the front door and raised his hoof.

_Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_

Fiddleford jumped up and ran to the living room window. The stag stood at the front door. Once he saw Fiddleford watching him–which was as soon as the man arrived–he clopped over to the window. Fiddleford backed off. The stag stuck his muzzle inside and snorted. A picture frame fell over. Fiddleford hesitantly picked it up and looked it over. Photograph-Fiddleford grinned right back up at him, a woman with an infant by his side.

The stag backed off and hopped back to the kitchen. When Fiddleford went back into the kitchen, the stag was there, blowing on the phone. Fiddleford grabbed the phone and started typing in a number. The stag turned and walked off.

The stag watched as Stanley stood before a camera, grinning and going off on a new product. His aura was lighter, though it still held a silver mask. However, the blue and teal were becoming more vibrant. The stag stared at him. How could this be? Stanley was happier. He had food in his stomach, a bed to sleep on–a better one now that he could afford a slightly better hotel–and a job. …it was Stanford. He needed Stanford’s approval.

The white stag walked off. Stanley needed Stanford’s approval. Stanford needed to get over Bill and find a way to fight his demons. Fiddleford needed to get his head out of the Society and see what matters. But how would he fulfill all of these wishes? If Stanford could just start talking to Stanley and get the two of them going on healing their relationship, Stanley would be cured. If someone could show Fiddleford the wrongness of his device, he’d get better. If Stanford could find a way to get over his pride, get a clear head, and think logically then–

The white stag stopped. His ears flicked forward. That was it. That was how he’d fix them. He needed a bit more time, though…

 

For two days, the stag stayed around Fiddleford more often. When he wasn’t home, or sometimes while he was there, the stag would scope out his home in search for anything of use. Many objects were gray, but there were others with color. A particularly vibrant white one smeared by blue was inside of the dresser. Oh, if only he could reach it!

Then, one night, Fiddleford took out the object. The man shuffled through his drawer and pulled out a few things, one of them being the thick scrapbook. Perfect! After finding whatever he’d been searching for, Fiddleford went back to his study. That night, when he attempted to go to bed, he walked in on the stag trying to grab the book. Without really thinking about it, Fiddleford picked up the object and held it out. The stag took the book from him and stepped back a few paces. When Fiddleford poked his head out, the stag was lying down, staring at a photo of a man Fiddleford knew well.

“You know him?” Fiddleford asked without surprise.

The stag didn’t look up. He stared down at the photo beneath him. _This was Stanford._ Not only was this Stanford, but this was Stanford while he was happy. This was also Fiddleford, happy as could be. The memory was joyful, even through all this pain.

“He lives in a cabin outside of town.” Fiddleford pointed down the road in the direction of Stanford’s cabin. “You can visit him if you want.”

The stag looked up at him. He didn’t stand up.

“Yeah, you have fun.” Fiddleford went to bed without shutting the window.

The white stag gently shut the book and stood up.

He was now next to Stanford’s cabin. He approached the living room window and hesitated. There was shouting. Yet he could only feel one soul within. The stag walked up to the window and looked inside.

Stanford slumped down at the dining room table and set his head in his hands. The table had been overrun by dirty dishes, crumbled papers, food trash, and broken pens. Some shattered glass dressed the table and floor. A few liquids–mostly coffee and juice–had not been cleaned up just yet.

The man growled and glowered at the table. “What am I supposed to do? Dammit!” he slammed his fist into the table, causing a few objects to rattle and his cup of coffee to teeter dangerously. “I shouldn’t have trusted you. Fiddleford was right and now he won’t even answer my calls! It’s all your fault!” He glared at the wall. “It’s all your fault! You tricked me, but I will  _not_  fall for your tricks again. I’m going to stop you, I swear it!”

Stanford stood up. “I’ll find a way to stop you. Then, I’ll make sure you never trick anyone again! You’re not going to take this dimension, Cipher! I swear it!”

Stanford was yelling at the wall. The yellow was _definitely_ starting to flare within him.

Stanford stomped his foot, pushed his chair back, and started pacing. “I just need to think of something. I’ll do it. I’m smart. I’ll defeat you. I’ll stop you.” He glared at the phone. “With or without his help.”

Eventually, the man’s hate-fueled pacing tired him out. He plopped back down at the dining room table and crossed his arms on the table. Stanford seemed to be deep in thought, now. He looked up and then started. The white stag stood, the book in his mouth, watching him.

“What do you want?” Stanford growled at him. His voice was more tired than it was angry.

…

“What do you want?” Stanford repeated, louder this time.

…

“Shoo! Get out of here!” Stanford waved his hand. The stag looked at his hand and then at him. “Get! I’m not falling for it!” The stag turned and clopped away. “You better leave,” Stanford’s grumble was quieter as the stag left. He stood up and shut the window. The stag wasn’t in his sight as he did so.

The white stag was not giving up. He resisted the urge to visit Stanley and Fiddleford. He needed to be away from Fiddleford for a while. Not long enough to make him give up completely, but long enough to realize that he missed the white stag. Once he missed the white stag, he’ll realize that he doesn’t want to be alone. _Then_ he will go back to his family. Stanley was different. He could go without seeing the stag for a few days.

Stanford’s night was rough, just like all the others. He was not getting enough sleep. Stanford was feeling the full effects of insomnia and paranoia and the white stag hurt to see it, much less feel it. The white stag moved from window to window, both watching the man and hoping to be noticed.

Then, as he sat down in his living room, reading over his notes, he noticed a pale white figure outside. He jumped and looked up. Standing at the door was the stag. This time, he had a book in his mouth. Stanford glared at the creature. “What do you want?”

The stag stared at him, the book held firmly in his mouth. The window was closed, so it wasn’t like the stag could put the book inside.

Stanford looked at the book and then at the stag. “I’m not falling for it. I don’t trust you. Now go away, won’t you?”

…

“Ugh! Go! Shoo!” Stanford stood up and waved his hand. The stag didn’t even bat an eye at Stanford’s futile efforts. Eventually, Stanford walked over to the window and snapped the curtains shut.

The white stag walked off. This… was going to be tough. Still, he’d gotten through thick skulls before.

He looked at the forest. One such a skull was hard at work thinking up a good pitch. Another skittish soul was looking for him. The third was trying to drown himself in coffee and fight off a dream demon who wasn’t actually there. Yes, Bill was there, but he was sitting back, laughing, waiting for Stanford to drive himself mad. That’s just how Bill worked.

The white stag nodded. He knew what to do. Yes, Stanford could ignore him all he wanted. But there was one thing Stanford couldn’t ignore.

That morning, the stag was inside of one of Stanford’s rooms outside of his lab. When the man left his lab, he yelped and backed off. It was almost amusing.

Eventually, Stanford choked out, “What are you doing here?”

…

“Wh-who let you in here?” Stanford looked at the door. It was closed. “What are you doing in here?” Stanford backed up and patted the wall, probably looking for his crossbow.

The stag lifted his head a bit. His antlers brushed against the beams of the house. He craned his neck as if offering the book to Stanford. This wasn’t going to work, but he needed to get his point across somehow.

Stanford shook his head. “Y-you’re leaving this house. Right now!”

…

“Ugh!” Stanford walked around him, careful to go around his back to avoid the deer’s spookily large legs. When he got to the door, he opened it and stood outside. “Out!”

The deer bowed his head in a dramatic manner before he slowly got to his knees and eventually scooted out of the house. He looked at Stanford for a while before walking away, head and tail high. Stanford hurried back inside.

He kept offering the book to Stanford and Stanford kept ignoring it.

Then, just a day after the stag appeared, the man made a mistake. Stanford opened the window to a new day’s morning. The stag waited for him to turn his back for appearing in the window. He took a breath to clearly state his presence.

Stanford jumped and spun around. The stag huffed again. “Ghosts don’t breathe…” Stanford mumbled.

Calm as ever, the stag stared at him, waiting.

Stanford rolled his eyes and sighed. “Okay, fine. Hand it over.” He held out his hand. The stag opened his mouth. The book fell into Stanford’s hand, which turned into both of his hands as it got unbalanced. Stanford held it up. His brows furrowed. “‘Photo Album’? What are you going on about?” He looked up. The stag was gone. Instead, he was waiting just outside of the window.

 “Who does this belong to?” he heard Stanford say. Then, there was a shuffle as the book was nearly dropped. Stanford sat down on the cluttered couch and stared at the book. Eventually, Stanford opened the book again and started looking through it. He went over picture after picture. The book was causing him pain. Eventually, the man changed. He relaxed. He smiled. A chuckle caught in the back of his throat on occasion.

Stanford, caught up in the moment he relived, laughed aloud. “Damn, Fiddleford’s idea of a ‘nice party to meet friends’ was way too much like yours.” Stanford hesitated and his smile left him. Next to him was just a pile of old boxes. He looked around. The room was just one big pile of old boxes, worn books, and junk. Stanford deflated. His solemn gaze eventually met the stag’s. There was desperation and hurt in Stanford’s eyes.

Stanford glanced down at the book again. “You know, my idea of a party was sitting inside of my room studying. Well, wasn’t really my idea of a  _party_ , just what I’d rather be doing.” The stag flicked an ear. Stanford, encouraged, went on, “But you see, Fiddleford thought I was staying in my room too much. So, he dragged me out to this party. None of the other kids there knew me! But a few did know Fiddleford. Well, part way through the party, we realized someone spiked the punch. Things went a bit off the rails there after that. I didn’t really get into a fight, but I did splash Fiddleford with that punch he gave me. He threw it right back at me. Aw, but I couldn’t be mad at him.” He looked down at the picture. “He was my friend, the best one I’d known in a long time.” His smile fell. “I drove him away, too.”

No. Keep talking. It’s helping. The white stag snorted, causing the pages the ruffle.

Stanford flipped the page. This one was of Fiddleford holding up a “2nd Place” ribbon.  _“2 nd place out of two hundred students!”_

“I remember this one. Fiddleford and I both had enrolled in this mandatory social studies class, you see. For our final project, we had to interview people of a certain group and then explain. Fiddleford went over local farmers and how they were affected by urbanization and factories. Mine was over the science community and how underrepresentation was affecting its place here. I got first place and he got second. He wasn’t anything but happy for me, despite the fact that this had been a competition.” He chuckled to himself. “It’s not like I wasn’t competitive, I just didn’t like competing against him.”

Hours went past of Stanford telling the white stag all about his and Fiddleford’s college days. They came to a point where Stanford stopped appearing. These stories were a bit thinner. Still, Stanford did know some things about these since he and Fiddleford talked quite a bit in their down time. “Heh. He called me when he got his son. He was happier and more excited right then than any other time since I’d known him. He loved his wife and he loved Tate.”

Stanford sighed. “When I asked for his help a year ago, he was happy to help.” He looked up at the stag. “And now he’s gone! He won’t answer my calls! I’ve messed up so badly. I’m afraid he… hey, wait! You got this book, right?” Stanford held up the book. “Is he alright?”

The stag nodded.

Stanford sighed. “Oh, good. I’ve messed up so many things. I don’t want to hurt him anymore. When you mean he’s alright… you mean he’s alive, right? Did he go back home?”

The stag nodded.

Stanford smiled and looked down at the book. “Good. …so, you know things, right? Since you know Fiddleford, do you know other people?”

The stag stared at him.

“Okay, hoping that’s a yes? Well, you found him, and you found me. Do you know people outside of Gravity Falls?”

The stag stared at him. Was he ready for this information? Oh, to tell him where Fiddleford was… no. No, Stanford wasn’t ready. So, the stag turned away from the window.

Stanford jumped up. “Wait! I didn’t mean to run you off!” He set the book down and raced to the window.

The stag was gone, invisible. He watched as Stanford ran outside. The man darted around the house, searching for the deer. Stanford groaned and put a hand on his head. “Uuuugh that was stupid.” He looked into the forest. His eyes grew round. “Wait. That was a ghost, wasn’t it? And it’s trying to lead me away from my cabin.” Stanford looked about and slowly backed toward his house. “He’s just trying to get me outside and alone.” He shut himself inside of his house. His words were muffled by the door, now. “Good thing I didn’t run too far away. Who knows what would have happened if I tried to follow that thing?”

The white stag bowed his head. Oh, if only Stanford knew the slightest bit about him! Then again, if he did, Stanford might only try and study him. The white stag walked up to the window. Stanford sat back down and looked through the book. No. The white stag kept watch, now visible.

 

When Stanford woke up the next morning, the book was still clutched in his hands. He set the book down on a box next to himself and stretched. Stanford gasped and looked around. Stanford got up and walked into the kitchen. There, standing by the window, was the white deer. “Did you do this?”

…

“What is this?” Stanford held up the book. “What are you? I just dreamt–well, I didn’t! That’s the point! Are you some sort of spirit or demon yourself? What’s going on?”

Yes, this is something Stanford needed to see.

“Wait!” Stanford raced outside.

The stag stood in his yard. He was turned toward the forest, but his gaze stayed on Stanford’s.

“What’s happening here? Who are you?”

The stag flicked his ear. Then, he turned and walked off. Stanford, the photo album still clutched in his arms, followed.

Eventually, the stag walked into a cave. Stanford took out a flashlight. He gasped and stopped. Drawings and inscriptions scrawled over the wall. People, animals, and triangles with hats splattered over the stone walls. “Y-you do work for Bill!” Stanford accused.

The stag glanced back at him, raised one hoof, and then struck at the stone, straight into the demon’s big eye. He turned his head back and stared at Stanford.

Stanford looked over the painting and then at the white deer. “So, you don’t work for him?”

The stag stared at him.

“Okay, but, you know a lot of things. After you visited me, I didn’t have a nightmare about Bill and Bill didn’t destroy anything. Did you do that?”

…

Stanford looked down at his book. “Is there a way to stop him from entering this world?”

Not yet. The stag lowered his head and snorted, stirring up dust from the floor. Then, he raised his head and walked out. He came so close to Stanford, that the man wouldn’t have to move his hand half a foot in order to touch him. Stanford didn’t even try.

The stag led him back to the cabin. From there, he bounded around the forest and disappeared. Stanford walked back into his cabin. “I… have a lot to think about.”

 

The stag hopped over to Fiddleford’s house. There was a salt lick and deer feed outside. Oh. Fiddleford did care about him. He cared more than the stag realized. Still, it had to be done.

The stag walked up to the window of Fiddleford’s study. His aura was a bit redder and the yellow was lighter in color. In the man’s hands was that machine–the machine that erased people’s memories and replaced them with yellow. It changed their auras for the worse. But Fiddleford… wasn’t using it. He had this look of contemplation about him. He was guilty, a bit scared, and contemplative.

Fiddleford started tinkering with the thing.

The stag nudged the window, causing it to shutter.

Fiddleford looked up and sucked in his breath. He jumped up and raced to the window, grinning. He left the memory gun on the table. The stag turned and walked around to the front of the house. Fiddleford immediately followed. He ran out of the house and stood in the front yard, just feet away from the stag.

The stag bleated. He snorted and stared at Fiddleford.

“You got somethin’ ta say?” Fiddleford walked forward.

The stag dipped his head and bleated again.

Just as Fiddleford approached, the stag raised his head and started to walk off. When Fiddleford just watched, the stag turned his head and pawed at the ground.

“You want me to follow?”

The stag walked into the forest. Fiddleford decided to follow. As the man followed, the stag sped up. Fiddleford sped up his walk. The deer looked back and sped up his own pace. Soon enough, the white stag was bounding through the forest and Fiddleford was following at a dead sprint.

The stag burst through the trees and raced down the sidewalk that flanked a blacktop road, Fiddleford hot on his heels.

Eventually, the stag slowed. Fiddleford, exhausted, slowed to a stop. He leaned forward and set his hands on his knees. After taking a few deep breaths, he looked up.

The stag stared back at him. It was time. He raised his hoof and pawed the ground three times. He turned and walked off. The white stag’s body shuttered and dissipated into mist.

Invisible, the deer looked back.

Then, the door to the house nearby opened. “Dad!”

Fiddleford stood up straight. Tate raced out of the house, squealing and laughing. Fiddleford, his grin coming back to him, knelt and held open his arms. He was almost thrown back by the force of the boy. “Tate! How’s it goin’ buddy?”

“I missed you, Dad!” Tate squeezed him back.

“Aw, I’ve missed you too, Tater Tot.” Fiddleford looked up. Standing in the open doorway was his tired wife.

The stag watched the reunion for a few moments. Fiddleford’s aura lightened quite a bit. The yellow retreated. It was still there, but it had faded. Fiddleford’s trail vanished. The stag was no longer needed. So, he turned and walked. He considered the two trails before him. Should he visit Stanford or Stanley first…? He hadn’t seen Stanley in a while.

When he got back to Stanley, the man was sitting in a room, looking through his things. He was alone, at least for now. He was too far inside the building, however. There were no outside windows. The white stag phased through the building and appeared within the room.

It took a few moments for Stanley to notice him. When he did, he jumped and gasped. Then, he laughed. “Moony! Don’t scare me like that!”

The white stag snorted and lowered his head. He could feel Stanley’s joy. His aura hadn’t changed, unfortunately.

“So, you’ve found yourself a new friend, eh? Like spending time with them more than me? I’m guessing it’s because I got a job. You’re into the jobless type.”

The white stag snorted. That wasn’t entirely true! …although, most of the people he visited were jobless either due to the fact that they’d lost their job or didn’t have one in the first place.

“So, save anyone from being fire kindle?”

The stag lay down and flicked his ears forward. Oh, how he wanted to tell his story!

“Ooh! You have! Too bad deer can’t talk. Not even magic ones.” He shrugged and smirked. “Good thing I can. Since you’ve been gone so long I guess I’ll just have to bore you with what happened.”

There was nothing Stanley could do to bore him. Even the menial parts of Stanley’s stories were so exciting for the stag. At least he knew that Stanley wasn’t getting into trouble, despite the fact he still sometimes took from tip jars. Then again, he did give the stag that weird smirk and then laughed at his annoyance, so it was probably a joke.

Eventually, it got too late to stay. The stag waited at Stanley’s window for a while as he had dinner and stayed until he was given a sleepy “’night, Moony” before he moved on. The sooner he helped Stanley, the better.

 

Over the next few days, Stanford attempted to study the white stag. Stanford was so predictable it was funny. Still, the white stag didn’t want to be studied. Stanford was so close… he needed _one last trip._ One last trip and Stanford would be healing much more steadily then now. Still, Stanford… was a _stubborn_ scientist.

So, over the next few days, the white stag did everything in his power to make the man give up.

Stanford sighed in frustration. “Okay, so, two days ago you confirmed that you were a ghost. Yesterday you said you weren’t a ghost. Now today you tell me you’re a spirit from another dimension?”

Stanley got that same look about him whenever he was frustrated with the stag. The deer set his chin on Stanford’s living room window, resisting a laugh.

Stanford groaned. “Okay, so, I don’t know that. But you’re a very intelligent creature that can understand literature, correct?”

The stag huffed.

“Okay. You can also ward off dreams, right?”

The stag huffed.

“Yesterday you said you couldn’t!”

The stag shut his eyes and pretended to fall asleep.

“You are the most frustrating entity I’ve ever had to deal with,” Stanford muttered, crossing something out in his journal. “I’m trying to save the world from Bill and you’re not helping!”

The stag made a show of yawning. He was so close…

“That’s what I thought,” Stanford sighed and started going through his notes on Bill. After coming to some conclusion, he looked up at the “sleeping” stag. “Can’t you give me a clue? Just one hint? Just something to defeat Bill? Please?”

The deer woke up and stood up straight. Please. That’s something, at least.

Stanford looked at him. “Uh… please?”

The stag turned and walked off, head held high.

Stanford jumped up and raced outside, his journal under one arm and a bag with some books and papers over his other shoulder.

Outside, the stag waited for him. When Stanford got outside, the deer walked down the road into town.

“Why are we going into town?” Stanford prompted. He perked up. “Do the natives of Gravity Falls know anything about Bill? Ugh! I should’ve thought of that earlier. Of course they might know some things about Bill.”

The stag didn’t even twitch an ear to acknowledge that he heard Stanford speak.

Eventually, they made it down into a small residential area. Stanford sucked in his breath as he saw Fiddleford’s car sitting in the driveway. “Are you telling me that Fiddleford knows how to defeat Bill?”

Again, the stag didn’t answer. Instead, he knocked on the front door and then turned to Stanford. Stanford walked past the stag and knocked. The stag snorted, his breath blowing over the doorknob.

“What? I can’t just  _walk in!_ ” Stanford squawked.

The deer snorted again, this time bringing a bit more air into his lungs as he did so.

“I have to get his permission first, deer.”

The stag twitched an ear.

“Oh, right! Yeah, I should probably call you something, right?” Stanford thought for a moment and looked over the deer. “Hmm…” He grinned and snapped his fingers. “Whitey!”

 _Whitey._ The white stag stared at him, speechless. He quickly got back to his senses and pawed at the door again. There was no response from within the house, which was good.

Stanford looked at the door. “Wait! Is he hurt? Is that why he’s not answering?”

The stag snorted, breathing air over the door knob again.

Stanford opened the door and walked inside. Everything was nice and neat. As he walked around the house, there was no sign of Fiddleford. He wasn’t anywhere within the house.

Stanford ran back outside. “Do you know where he is?”

The stag turned and walked into the forest.

“The forest?” Stanford followed, quickening his pace a bit to catch up. The stag looked behind him and sped up as well. Soon enough, the white stag was bounding through the forest and Stanford was following at a dead sprint.

Trees flashed by. Branches whizzed overhead. Stanford was following. He didn’t seem to consider the fact that they were running faster than any car could speed and neither were getting torn apart by nature.

Eventually, the leafy forest floor turned into hard concrete. The two raced through the city. The deer didn’t look tired in the least while Stanford was wheezing and gasping. Even through the strict diet and exercise regimen he’d put himself through, he couldn’t hold this strain.

The stag slowed to a stop. Stanford staggered and, heaving, stopped. He nearly fell over in his sudden imbalance. When he looked up, the stag looked at him.

It was time.

He raised his hoof and struck the ground three times. Then, he hopped over the small fence in front of one of the quaint houses in Palo Alto. The white stag looked in through a window. Fiddleford looked up at him and grinned. “Heya, Buddy.”

Hello to you, too. The stag turned his head and hopped away. He vanished into mist moments before arriving at the fence. He was still there, but invisible, now. He looked back. He could no longer see Stanford’s trail. His aura was still in turmoil, but the stag’s part in his journey was now officially over.

Stanford stood up straight and looked into the window. Staring right back at him, eyes round as moons, was his old friend and partner.

“Fiddle–”

“Stan–”

“–ford?”

The white stag dipped his head and hopped away.

Stanley was in his car parked on the side of the road. Once the stag appeared, Stanley perked up. “Moony, buddy!” Stanley rolled down his window and leaned out the side. “You’re here early.”

The deer huffed and turned around so that his faced the road ahead. He looked back.

“Leavin’?”

The stag walked forward a few paces and then stopped and looked back.

“Want me to follow?” Stanley started to get out of his car, but the white stag stamped his front hooves on the pavement. No! In the car!

Stanley got back in and shut the door. The deer calmed down and walked forward a few more paces. “Moony, if this is some sort of spiritual trip that ends in me being converted to someone else’s religion, I’m not going to forgive you.” Regardless, he pulled the car forward at a crawl. The stag’s ears flicked forward. He bounded ahead. Stanley forced his car to go faster and faster to avoid losing sight of the deer.

The stag glanced back at Stanley. They were going _very_ fast.

Stanley tapped the horn on his car. The stag shook his head in pretend disapproval.

Then, the deer threw his head back and started to slow. The trees around them turned into buildings. The road evened out and turned black flanked by silver.

Stanley yelped and slowed the car. Unfortunately, he was still bearing down on the completely unafraid stag. He slammed his feet on the brakes.

_SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!_

Stanley’s car veered off the road. It shuttered and bounced as the wheels hit the sidewalk. The front bumper hit a fence. The wooden fence bent and splintered but, as the car had lost significant speed and momentum, didn’t break. Shocked, Stanley gripped his wheel with quite a bit of strength. The stag turned around to face him.

Stanley glared at the deer and attempted to open his door. It could only open an inch or so before hitting the fence. So, he slid out the passenger side. “What the hell?! You could’ve killed me, Moon-butt!”

The stag threw his head back and then looked at the window. There were two people there. He looked back at Stanley. His journey was over. The stag raised his hoof and, for the first time in his existence, hesitated. Slowly, he scored the ground three times.

“Moony?”

The stag tried not to flinch. The man’s voice was no longer filled with fear-born anger. It was a bit quiet in his confusion. The stag raised his head and tail high and walked off. He dissipated into mist.

Stanley ran forward. “Whoa, wait! Wait! Where’d you–what? What happened?” he looked around. “Where am I? Moony?”

The stag, invisible, watched him from next to the fence. He… could no longer see Stanley’s trail.

The door to Fiddleford’s house, whose yard he almost invaded, opened. Fiddleford walked out, Stanford behind him. Fiddleford’s bright blue eyes concentrated on Stanley. Though the man didn’t look mad, Stanley jumped and put his hands up anyway and grinned. “Hey, friend! I’m sorry about the fence, uh…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the man behind him. “Sixer?”

 

The white stag watched them through the window. The Stan twins had awkwardly started their greetings. Fiddleford herded them inside and sat them all down with some soup and drinks. Eventually, as they talked and caught up, all three of them relaxed around each other. Stanley went off on how he saw the deer and both others agreed. Slowly, over the hours they spent with one another, their auras had faded into white. Fiddleford’s was still a bit pinkish and the Stan twins had a teal tinge, but they were alright. Their futures were sealed. They were content. They were going to go through some more rough patches–one of which included Bill–but the stag wouldn’t be there for that. Those were actions outside of his control. He’d done his job.

The stag felt a little tug.

The stag looked back. A white trail so faint he could hardly see it shimmered and slithered off. It was time to leave. Someone else needed his help.

The stag turned to the trio. He hoped he’d never need to see these three again. After all, he was quite fond of them. If they needed his help, it was because one of them was no longer there. Unfortunately, Stanley’s condition had crept up on the man so slowly the stag hadn’t detected it. If ever the depression did come back, he might not know about it until it was too late. Not to mention Fiddleford. He’d been so close to falling into insanity, it was alarming how quick the yellow threatened to spread through his aura. Or Stanford, who’d solve his problems by running away and tackling them all on his own.

Then the stag… _felt._

He felt an emotion all on his own. What an unfortunate emotion to feel, too. As he watched the trio, he reflected on himself. He felt… _sad._ He glanced at his own body. No, he still didn’t have an aura. What was he thinking? He didn’t have a soul. He couldn’t feel. He couldn’t have an aura.

Still, when he tried to leave, his muscles locked. He… _wanted_ to stay. He felt sadness. He felt selfishness, now. Sadness didn’t make him selfish. It was the fondness he had for them that made him so. He’d been fond of other people before but… but they always forgot him. He never forgot them, but he also never _felt_ for them.

The deer looked up at the window. He didn’t have a soul. He didn’t have an aura. He didn’t have emotions. He didn’t have a name. A _name._ He didn’t have a name.

“Hey, Moony!” “Heya, Buddy.” “Hmm… Whitey!”

The white stag dipped his head in a bow. He had a name. They gave him a name.

Eventually, the deer shook off his worries. They were together, now. Brothers and best friends. There was no need to worry. He couldn’t stay. He had a job to do. Even if he did stay, it would only end up hurting them. Oh, how the stag never wanted to see him–er, them hurt again. So, with one final, silent good-bye, the white stag turned and walked down his newest trail.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here we go! The White Stag is such a fun character to write. At least, my version of him. Although it says he gains emotions in the end, this is sort of gray. In future writings, he could have no emotions or have emotions. It depends on the time and the universe, and all that jazz.  
> Anyway, writing happy endings is always fun. It pained me a bit to see him go, but it was for the best. He had people who needed his help.  
> Also, writing about how he sees was pretty cool. He sees like the normal person: colors, shapes, sizes, and depth. The "auras" are just like lights or glows that surround a person or object. Basically, like the ["Detect Life"](http://i.imgur.com/VfMgy3p.png) spell from Skyrim, only more transparent so he can see the person/object without hindrance.  
>  **Guide to the colors that the White Stag sees:**  
>  **People aura**  
>  White = content  
> Green = envy  
> Red = fear  
> Blue = desperation  
> Yellow = insanity  
> Teal= guilt  
> Gray = depression  
> Black = nothing (cannot be helped)  
>  **Object aura**  
>  White = fond memory  
> Green = precious  
> Red = terrible/feared  
> Blue = melancholic  
> Yellow = guilty  
> Gray = meaningless  
> Black = hate
> 
> Part 4 of 4. Complete!


End file.
